Beautiful Things
by One of the Fallen
Summary: When Rosalie decides she wants to do something with her life that doesn't involve taking her clothes off, she stumbles into the life of a shy, distracted writer and discovers the truth of what it means to be beautiful.
1. In Which Alec Is Distracted

_**Disclaimer: Didn't write Twilight. Borrowed a few characters, though.**_

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><p><em><strong>So I might have drooled a little over Emmy's Pervy Picspirations (Friday, 6 January 2012) and wrote a little one-shot, but two very annoying people crawled into my brain and wreaked havoc for a couple of days until they forced me to do their story justice. And really, a one-shot wasn't enough for these two because even though their sexy times was all kinds of fun to write, I think getting to know them is even better. <strong>_

_** This was also originally an Edward/Rosalie story but Alec doesn't like it when I get his name wrong and he was very mean to me until I fixed the mistake. **_

_**Here's hoping you love getting to know them just as much as I do.**_

_**(This mess is unbeta'd; all mistakes are mine)  
><strong>_

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><p><em><strong>Mood Music:<br>Dragonette - Come On Be Good  
><strong>_

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><p><strong>A. <strong>

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

I look up from the laptop screen, startled. The babble of voices around me seems to increase, like the invisible bubble around my head has been burst, and I'm suddenly aware of the short, pretty waitress standing beside my table.

She taps her pen impatiently against her worn notepad and bites her lip.

"Sorry?"

She forces a smile and says, "Can I get you anything – a coffee? Or a scone, maybe? They're freshly baked."

"Um…" I push my glasses up my nose as I try to remember when I last ate. "That sounds great."

"The scone?"

"Yeah, and a macchiato." I offer the waitress an apologetic smile.

"No problem."

She turns back toward the counter and I've almost completely forgotten about her four seconds later. My fingers touch the keys and the flow of words on screen picks up where I'd left off.

_Emily studied the ring suspiciously. The ring held no obvious markings to suggest it had been tampered with, but experience had taught her not to rely on what she saw alone. _

_"The curator was holding this when he died?" she asked._

_Madeline inclined her head. "Actually, he was wearing it, Dr. Young. I thought it was quite strange, since Mr. Redmond wasn't one for wearing jewelry." _

_"Can I take this?" Emily asked the question to be polite; she had every intention of taking the ring with her, whether Madeline said yes or she was forced to break into the museum after hours. Actually, a part of her was hoping that Madeline would refuse. It had been a while since Emily had been able to put her breaking and entering skills to good use, what with Sam insisting on doing most of the leg work. _

_Madeline winced. "The museum has a strict policy about the removal of artifacts. That's what puzzles me so much about Mr. Redmond's behavior before his death. He followed the rules so religiously that I would have thought him the last person to steal an artifact."_

_"I understand," Emily said, with some disappointment infused in her tone. "Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to see it."_

_Madeline smiled, relief flickering in her eyes when she realized Emily wasn't going to push her. Of course, she had no idea that Emily was already studying the building for possible entryways and exits._

_"So, I understand the museum is known for its rather advanced security system?"_

_"Indeed. We just had cameras in the new west wing installed a few weeks ago…"_

"Your coffee, sir."

I hear her, this time, and take the cup from her with a friendly smile. "Thank you."

"You're a writer, huh?" she says, nodding at my laptop.

"Um… yeah," I says.

"Cool." She smiles, a little more warmly than before. "I used to write a little in college, but I never have time anymore."

"I rarely have time for anything else," I admit and take a sip of my coffee. I barely register the taste; I'm distracted. I've finished the latest chapter, but my brain is already cycling through the next, arranging and ordering, plucking descriptive words from my memory to suit the next scene.

I'm trying not to be rude, but I want the waitress to go away.

"You're a serious, writer, then?" she nods knowingly, though I doubt she _really_ knows. "Have you been published before?"

"Yes."

My fingers are itching uncontrollably. It's like my imagination has a direct link to my fingers, and it completely bypasses the part of my brain that makes the decisions.

"Anything I might have heard of?"

I wince. I don't want to tell her who I am. I wish Jane was here. Frustration surges through me. No, I don't. She might have been able to maintain my little bubble of invisibility in Seattle, but she was a very difficult person to be in close proximity with for more than a couple of minutes.

I shrug. "Perhaps."

"Like…"

I brace myself. "Um, I wrote _'Silence in the Tomb'_?" There's nothing really outstanding about the title – not like the others in the series. I mentally cross my fingers, praying she won't recognize me.

"Oh." She pales slightly. "Oh. _Oh. My God. _You're Alec Mercier! Ohmigod!"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. _Not again_.

"Oh my – wow! Wait until I tell Amy! This is crazy. Could I… could I please have your autograph?" Her eyes are feverishly bright as she rips a page from her notepad and shoves it in my face.

Oh god. My hand has already fastened around my cell. Jane's going to be so annoyed. This is the third time this month that I've had to change cafés. She offered, last time, to make an arrangement with the manager to have me left alone when I came in, but I prefer anonymity. Even with strict instructions to leave me alone, word still spreads. I can't blame them, really; having a minor celebrity, even if it was just a writer such as myself, frequent your restaurant and cafés had to be good for business, right?

Other people in the café have started to notice the waitress's excited voice and they're staring at me curiously.

"Um, I need to – to leave." I place money on the table, but she grabs my arm.

"Wait! You haven't signed this!" She waves the paper in front of my face. I see her manager appear at the counter, and she offers me a horrified, apologetic look as she strides over to our table. Drawing more attention to my current predicament.

My stomach starts to churn and I'm suddenly glad that I haven't eaten anything since… well, in a very long time.

"Maggie," the manager admonishes.

I don't think the waitress even hears her.

"… and then he asked me to take off my bikini, and usually, I'm like, '_No, Rosalie, nude shoots are a really bad idea'_, but I was just so comfortable that I couldn't resist taking everything off for the opportunity to appear on the cover of Playboy."

Startled, almost every eye in the café - including my own – swivels in the direction of the two women sitting in a quiet corner at the back of the room. The brunette's shoulders are shaking with silent laughter, but the blond is staring at her friend earnestly, as though she's completely unaware that she has just announced her intention to appear naked on the cover of a magazine to the entire room.

"Oh MY GOD! That's _Rosalie Hale_! OH MY GOD!" The waitress – Maggie – immediately drops my arm, her mouth falling open like a goldfish as she stares at the other woman. I'm sure that she's just lost her job, but I don't intend to stay long enough to find out. I hit save and close the lid of the laptop, shoving it under my arm and making my escape while everyone's distracted.

I'm breathing heavily by the time I push the café door open, my heart pounding in my chest. I hurry across the street, unlocking the door to the silver Volvo I bought a few weeks ago, and dropped my laptop on the passenger seat. I'm about to climb into the driver seat when the blond woman exits the café, her brunette friend stumbling after her. The girl is still laughing, her low, clear voice echoing across the street. The blond woman glances around, her eyes finally landing on me.

I still, crossing my fingers for real this time, though I'm not sure whether I want her to come over or not.

But she just winks and starts walking up the street, exiting my life almost as quickly as she entered it.

* * *

><p>There are fourteen new messages on the machine when I get back to my apartment.<p>

One is from Tanya, checking in.

_"Hey, big bro, just letting you know my flight landed in London an hour ago, and Brady and I just arrived at the hotel. It's just after ten here, so we're probably gonna order a late dinner then crash. Call you in the morning, 'kay? Love you!"_

One is from my agent, Ben, calling to check on my progress and remind me to call Jane for future appointments with publishers and events I have to attend.

Twelve of them are from Jane, and I delete them all without listening to them. If it's something important, Jane's more likely to appear in person than call me. Her frequent phone calls are just reminders to eat and occasionally shower.

I kick off my shoes and change into a pair of comfortable sweats, before wandering into my study with the laptop. I hook it up to the power supply, back up everything I've written onto an external hard drive (I've had so many near misses in the past that backing up everything has become essential to my routine), and click back into the Word document I was using at the café.

_Chapter Six, _I write. Then, I stop.

Panic assails me. I can't remember the plan I developed in the restaurant. I don't want to immerse myself in Emily's break-in plan just yet. I've left Sam at the motel and he's not the type of character to sit still, even while Emily's doing the research. Waiting makes him impatient. He's more likely to disobey Emily's command to lay low and start looking for his own clues, usually involving a stunning brunette or two, but what was I intending to do with him before the waitress interrupted?

I sigh and hit the 'hide' button.

I open up a new tab on Firefox, and type the first thing that comes to mind.

_Rosalie Hale._

I surprise myself, but I still hit enter. I'm curious.

There are over a million hits and I click the first link, intrigued by the title.

_**Hale, 28, To End Her Glittering Career?**_

_For Rosalie Hale, pictured, success has known no bounds. From the low-key, regionally based ad campaigns in her youth to the risqué, controversial spread that featured in last month's issue of Sports Illustrated, Hale's career has blossomed smoothly for almost a decade. However, after being approached by Playboy to do a rumored 'nude' cover spread, Hale has reportedly called it quits on her entire career. A spokesperson for the model says, "Rosalie understands that you can't stay young forever, and she's looking into different avenues of work before it's too late. Does this mean she's quitting the modeling scene altogether? Not at all. She's just keeping her options open." _

I scan the article, my eyes finally landing on the photograph. Unlike the red carpet shots I'm used to seeing when I'm perusing the magazine section of the store for the latest critique reviews of my work, Rosalie Hale is unaware of the camera, her eyes focused somewhere to the left of the shot.

She's very beautiful, even for a model. Her silvery blond hair is tied up in a messy blond and she's carrying grocery bags, and she looks almost normal. Not like any celebrity I've ever seen. But it's her smile that really intrigues me. It brightens up her entire face.

I sigh and close the tab. My interest in her is probably some sort of Damsel In Distress Syndrome. No one has ever come to my rescue before. Well, no one except Jane, but that's what she's paid to do.

Which reminds me…

I open up my e-mail and with heavy reluctance, I start a fresh e-mail to my assistant.

_Jane, _

_I would appreciate it if you could forward on the list of cafés in Seattle you have. _

_Alec_

There. Concise and to the point. She would hardly suspect the real reason I need the list from that, would she? I have a bad feeling in my stomach that yes, yes she would.

With that out of the way, I wander into the kitchen and take a microwavable meal from the freezer. That's when I notice the post-it on the fridge door.

_POKER NIGHT! Tuesday, 7pm._

It's underlined three times in my own, barely legible writing. I can't remember writing it, but I vaguely remember the phone call preceding it. My move to Seattle two months ago had attracted the attention of four other writers in the area – Carlisle Cullen, Peter Garrett, Diego Lovera and Irina Makenna. All esteemed writers in their own right, they'd extended an exclusive invitation to me last month to join them the first Tuesday of every month for a poker night.

I had been nervous about attending last month. It takes a while for me to accustom myself to new people. I'm also not very good in group situations. I'm used to blending into the background and observing other people; I don't like people looking at me.

Yet, in overcoming my fear and attending, I found a group of kindred spirits. They may not be as socially inept, but they understand the cons that come with being a well-known, published writer.

I take my cell from my pocket to check the day (Monday). I open the wrapping on my meal and use a fork to scrape the rice and curry into a plate, before placing the plate in the microwave and setting the timer.

I start to recall pieces of Sam's day from the café while I'm waiting and I wander into the study to write them down.

By the time I remember to check on the food, it's dark outside and the plate is cold.

I eat a yoghurt.

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><p>I like horror movies. I love the suspense, the edge-of-your-seat feeling in your gut as the murderer stalks their prey. It's probably why I found my niche writing a thriller series with a strong undercurrent of horror. I've studied the genre so thoroughly that I should know better by now; it's impossible to escape a bad thing.<p>

Which is why I should be expecting Jane's arrival, but when I look up distractedly from my laptop, I'm very, very surprised. Surprised and more than a little alarmed.

"Jane!" I shriek, almost falling out of my chair in shock. I immediately regret, not for the first time, giving her a key to my apartment. She had insisted it was essential if our arrangement was going to work, but her ability to sneak up on me is spiraling rapidly in the direction of an imminent heart attack.

She sniffs delicately, her sharp features twisting with mild disgust and she says, "You need to shower. Now."

Yes, boss. I really don't need telling twice. I hit save and reluctantly leave my desk, wishing I'd taken the time to write out a quick word diagram of the chapter plan I'd had in my head only a few seconds ago. Then again, a few seconds ago I hadn't expected to see _Jane_.

She's already left fresh clothes on the table next to the radiator in the bathroom, and a post-it reminding me to shave. I run my fingers over my cheek, wincing. I really did need to shave.

I shower quickly and dress in my usual t-shirt and Chinos combo (unless I know I'm staying home; then it's sweat pants). I shave, as instructed, and even manage to tame my brown hair into a presentable, finger-combed style, before I fit my thick, black-rimmed glasses over my eyes and smooth down my t-shirt.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Jane is answering the door to a delivery boy. I smell freshly baked goods before she opens the bag and I smile happily when she hands me my favorite apple pie slice and orange juice combo.

"Thank you," I say.

I've just taken a bite when she says, "So, you need a new café, do you?"

The pie goes down the wrong tube and I start coughing and spluttering while she stares at me, that knowing look in her eyes.

Jane is quite attractive. She has shoulder length brown hair that she usually has styled into soft, girly ringlets, and even though she's small, she dresses to emphasize her slim, feminine figure. But just one look at her wide, silvery-grey eyes has me convinced that she's a secret minion of the anti-Christ.

I recover slowly, my face hot as I nod my head vigorously.

She sighs, her brow furrowing dangerously. Oh god. Not the interrogation face. "What happened this time?"

"A waitress," I blurt out.

Jane grits her teeth and slams her small palm on the table.

I jump.

"Damn it, Alec, can you not pretend to be an accountant or something? A blogger, even. A web developer. A fucking _programmer_," she says angrily.

"I-I'm a terrible liar," I answer defensively.

"Then _get better_," she hisses. She suddenly relaxes, the anger draining from her system so fast that I'm even more convinced about the minion theory. In a pleasant tone she says, "Now, I've found the _perfect_ place."

I stare at her, more than a little bit scared, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"It's close enough to a bookstore, so you don't have to do any driving if you're in a hurry. I know what you're like when you get an idea stuck in your head. I would have suggested the place earlier but it just opened up. The manager's name is Charlotte Hennessy. She sounded lovely over the phone."

"You didn't… _tell_ her… did you?" I ask hesitantly.

Jane levels a disapproving look at me, but she says, "No, I did not."

Relief surges through me.

"I've also called Ben. You have a meeting with the publishers in few weeks to discuss the release of _Bittersweet Nightshade_. The pre-orders have gone through the roof and they want to set up a touring schedule." Seeing the look on my face, she says earnestly, "Alec, this will be good for your career. We can limit the numbers and we can select our own security team to go with us if it'll make you feel more comfortable. But I highly recommend that you do _not_ turn this opportunity down."

I know she's right, but my instincts are screaming at me to say no. I'll never be able to hide in cafés if I do a tour. People will recognize me everywhere. I'll be thrown from relative obscurity to getting noticed in the street.

I'm not ready.

I doubt I'll ever be ready for that.

But Jane's not the kind of person you say no to easily.

"I'll think about it," I mumble.

She nods.

"I have to pick up my niece from her ballet lesson in an hour or two," she says, "but I'll be back around four. I'll show you where the café is before you head to your poker meeting. It's at Mr. Cullen's, right?"

I incline my head. "Yeah."

"All right. I'll see you later. Try to remember to have some sort of dinner."

"I'll try."

When she leaves, my legs almost sag with relief. I finish my apple pie and drain the orange juice carton before placing the packaging in the trash. As I'm heading for my study again, I notice the message light blinking on the machine and I hit the play button.

"_Hey, big bro! Thought I might catch you early enough – it's 7am there, right? – I thought you might be heading to bed or something. Anyway, I'll call back later." _There's a pause before she says, "_Please answer. Love you."_

A guilty feeling pervades my chest and I pick up the house phone. I call her cell phone, remembering to add the international numbers at the beginning, and it rings three times before she picks up.

"Alec! Hey!" she squeals.

"Hey, Tan," I smile. "How are you?"

"I'm good, I'm good. Brady's been tied up in meetings all day so I've been amusing myself by hitting all the good tourist spots. There's so many cute cafés here, you'd love it." Her voice has a note of sadness in it and my smile slips.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come. Ben –"

"It's okay," Tanya says quickly. "I get it. I just miss you, that's all."

"I miss you, too," I say.

Tanya was fifteen when our parents died. I was twenty, almost halfway through my English Lit. degree, but I managed to work out an arrangement with my supervisor to work from home for a few months while I looked after my sister. She relied heavily on me for the first couple of years and I think she's still struggling with letting go of that. Every time her fiancé, Brady, leaves on a business trip, she tries to convince me to leave with them. She doesn't like being on her own.

I listen to her gush about London for a few more minutes before I excuse myself. She understands, knowing how distracted I get, and she tells me she'll ring tomorrow.

I hope I'll hear the phone ring.

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><p>Jane returns, as promised, and helps me pick out an outfit. She frowns disapprovingly when I eat a microwavable dinner and offers to have a takeout delivered but I refuse. I'm not that hungry. I'm actually excited.<p>

Around six, I follow her car to the café she told me about earlier and she's right – it's perfect. We go inside and order two coffees – a latte for her, a macchiato for me – and I relax, soaking up the atmosphere. It's small and homey, with wooden tables and chairs and pretty table clothes, but the contemporary art on the walls add a modern twist. The staff don't try to make conversation and I find myself falling in love with the place.

We finish our coffees and part ways. I'm giddy as I drive to Carlisle's house. He lives in a stylish condo on Alki Beach. The others are already there when I arrive, carrying a bottle of wine that I picked up on the way.

Carlisle's wife, Esme, smiles warmly when she answers the door. She has her caramel-colored hair fastened in a loose, stylish knot at the back of her head and she's wearing a cocktail dress. I panic a little; was I supposed to arrive more formally dressed?

She must have sensed my panic because she laughs lightly and gestures for me to step inside. "Come inside, Alec, dear. If you'll excuse me, I'm just about to leave. The girls and I are due a night out."

"Of course. Have a good night."

"I intend to." She squeezes my arm in goodbye and sweeps past me, closing the door behind her.

I wander into their spacious kitchen, placing the bottle of wine on the countertop, before following the quiet hum of voices into Carlisle's study.

The others are sitting at the low, wooden table in the center of the room. They all look up as I enter and I receive warm greetings from all of them.

"Hey, kid. You're just in time – Carlisle was about to deal," Peter says. I'm the youngest in the group, so they've all taken to calling me 'kid'. I've just turned thirty, but the endearment doesn't bother me. It makes me feel included.

It takes a few minutes for the conversation to flow, but once the game is well underway, our tongues loosen.

"I heard Warner Bros. bought the rights to _Lowell's Curse, _D," Irina says, glancing at Diego.

"Yep. Just signed the papers this morning. How'd you hear?"

"I have my ways," she smirks. "That, and your publicist is sleeping with my agent."

"There has to be some sort of breach of contract somewhere in that mess," Diego mutters. "I fold."

"Me, too," I say. I've got nothing.

"Three of a kind," Irina smirks.

"Four," Peter grins. Irina sighs and rolls her eyes.

"Full House," Carlisle says, placing his cards on the table.

Peter slides the chips toward him, his grin widening.

"Have you guys ever done a tour?" I ask.

Peter glances in my direction. "I did for the release of _Tempest_, why? They sending you off on one?"

"Yeah. I told Jane I'd think about it, but I'm inclined to say no," I admit.

"Why?" Carlisle frowns.

I shrug. "I'm deathly afraid of people?"

Irina snorts.

"It's a good move for your career," Diego points out. "Your fans feel closer to you and more in touch with your books. They get to ask you questions, understand the material better."

I shudder. "I'm not sure I _want _to be… _close_ to them."

"They're the ones paying the bills," Peter says sagely. "Remember that, kid."

I nod. He's right, though I don't like it.

Peter and Diego leave decidedly richer than they'd been when they arrived. I linger in Carlisle's study while he says goodbye to Irina, and when he returns, he catches me looking through his copy of _Slaughterhouse 5_.

"It's an interesting novel," he says.

"I was intrigued by the title," I admit. "It wasn't exactly what I thought it would be."

Carlisle's mouth twitches in amusement. "I figured you for a horror fan, alright."

"Is it that obvious?"

"I've read very few _scary_ thrillers, but you somehow manage to scare the living daylights out of me with every novel," Carlisle grins. "If it wasn't for my wife, I'd probably be sleeping with the light on for a few nights after each one."

I'm a little stunned by his admission. "_You've_ read my books?"

I can't imagine Carlisle being interested in the genre. His own work is more academic than fiction, since he also works at the University of Washington as a Physics lecturer, and thriller novels just don't seem to fit the image.

"I'm actually quite a serious fan," he says amusedly. "I have every intention of attending one of your signings. Esme, also. I've never seen her more excited over the release of a novel."

"Really? Um, wow." I replace _Slaughterhouse 5_ on the shelf. "Thanks, I guess."

He shows me to the door and I'm about to leave when he says, "The tour is a good idea, Alec. I know you've probably had some bad experiences, but there are some genuinely interested fans out there who follow your novels religiously. You owe it to them."

I nod. "I'll think about it."

"Good."

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><p>I'm surprisingly hungry when I arrive home. I throw some bread in the toaster and somehow manage to remember to check on it after a minute or two. I haven't slept in over two days. Jane has left a post-it note on my laptop screen, reminding me to sleep, and for once, I obey.<p>

I shuck off my jeans, t-shirt and socks, and collapse into bed in my boxers. I forget to take off my glasses and I'll probably have a few red marks on my face.

It won't be the first time.

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><p><em><strong>Tell me what you think? :)<strong>_


	2. In Which Rosalie Is Unemployable

_**Disclaimer: I didn't write Twilight. I did write about talking fridges for a state exam, though... **_

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><p><em><strong>Thank you to everyone who bothered to read the first chapter, I heart you all 3 <strong>_

_**Rosalie's in the driver's seat this time, folks...**_

_**_**(This mess is unbeta'd; all mistakes are mine.)**_**_

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><p><strong>Mood Music:<em><br>The Kooks - All That She Wants  
><em>**

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><p><strong>R. <strong>

Bella has already claimed our usual table when I arrive. It's quiet for a Monday afternoon and I weave easily between empty tables, ignoring the curious eyes that follow my movements. I'm wearing my favorite pair of TRBJ's, so it's only to be expected, really.

I drop into the seat opposite hers and she looks up from her Blackberry, smirking.

"Hey, Muzz."

"Don't call me that," I scowl.

"What?" She blinks innocently and picks up the menu. "How's the job hunting going?"

"It's not," I sigh. "I even offered to stand in the window of La Perla all day in my underwear and the manager looked at me like I was crazy. I don't think my appropriate – and very relevant – rendition of _Milkshake_ went down all that well either."

Bella makes a weird, choking sound in the back of her throat and stares at me wide-eyed. "You sang _Milkshake? _At a job interview?"

"It was either that, or _Don't Cha_, and the manager was really pretty. I think she might have been offended if I told her that her boyfriend wished she was hot like, well, _me_."

Bella rolls her eyes. "You, my friend, are laboring under the misapprehension that beauty can get you anywhere."

"If you'd lived with my parents for almost two decades, you would, too."

A short, mousy-haired waitress arrives at our table, and she smiles expectantly at us. "Are you guys ready to order?"

"Yep, can I get a low fat latte and a slice of lemon cake?" I say.

"Me, as well," Bella adds.

The waitress jots down our order and smiles again as she leaves.

"Speaking of your parents," Bella says when she's out of ear-shot, "when are you going to tell them?"

"What, that I've ruined all their hopes and dreams?" I snort. "Um, try _never_."

Bella gives me a disapproving look, but her Blackberry flares to life in her hand before she can issue her standard Lecture Rosalie rant. She answers the call, winding a stray curl around her pinkie finger as she talks, and it's then I realize how frazzled she looks. The pins in her dark, brown hair are hastily applied and she's missed a button on her blouse. Bella never dresses carelessly.

I narrow my eyes and when she finishes the call, I say, "_Rough_ day at work?"

Bella stares back innocently, but the slow blush working its way up from her neck gives her away. "Oh, you know… one of those days."

"You mean the days when Edward drags some poor fugitive into court?"

"Rose!" she snaps, her blush deepening. "I'll have you know that when Edward and I are at work, we keep things strictly professional, and –"

"You missed a button," I interrupt.

She groans and drops her forehead onto the table. "I can't help it, Rose," she bemoans. "When he shows up with the handcuffs and that cocky look on his face, my brain just shuts down."

I'm thoroughly enjoying her discomfiture. Bella likes to pride herself on being completely in control, well-organized and wholly professional, but Edward Masen has the supernatural ability to turn her into a mentally unstable mess. Nobody's ever driven my best friend this crazy since high school, when Mr. Berty gave Bella a 'B' in biology for failing blood typing.

"And you have the nerve to judge _my_ sex life," I sniff.

"Oh, Muzz, using sex as a relationship starter only works when you remember to actually _start_ the relationship." Bella pats my hand with mock-sympathy, a slow smirk working its way across her face.

I cross my arms and shoot her a withering glance from beneath my lashes.

The waitress arrives back with our cake and lattes and I pick up my fork, tucking into the cake as Bella's Blackberry starts to ring again. It happens so often that I've lost the inclination to even pretend to be offended. Years of coming second to her flawless GPA record and preparation for her Bar exam has taught me to endure the demands of her job, too.

"So," Bella muses in between bites of her lemon cake, "what are you going to do about your job situation?"

"I don't know," I respond. "I told Jessica I was quitting for good. It's too hard to compete with models who are ten years younger than me, unless I want to start taking my clothes off. Judging from what Jessica said, it just sounds like the beginnings of a porn career."

"You could do what J does. Be famous for being famous," Bella suggests.

I roll my eyes. "He only does that to promote the club. And it helps him pick up chicks. It doesn't pay as well as you'd think."

Bella shrugs. "So ask _him_ for a job."

I'm utterly horrified at the thought. Due to some sort of dysfunctional parenting technique my mother and father practiced, my brother and I take sibling rivalry to an entirely new competitive level. Asking Jasper, of all people, for help is like the equivalent of gnawing off my arms like some starved, mutant-human.

"Absolutely not."

"Fine." Bella smirks. "But if you can't pay rent, Edward's moving in and we're turning your room into our _playroom_."

The visual is enough to make me want to vomit. "Lovely."

I'm still trying to dislodge the image of Edward and Bella doing the nasty in my bedroom when I hear, "_Oh. My God. _You're Alec Mercier! Ohmigod!"

Both Bella and I look up at the same time, at one of the small tables next to the window. A waitress – she's probably new, because I've never seen her before – is staring at a tall, distressed looking guy, her mouth hanging open like she's never seen a human being before. I don't recognize him, but I suppose he _is_ kind of cute. His hair is a messy, tangle of dark chocolate brown, and he's wearing a stylish, blue and white striped shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows.

"Alec Mercier," Bella says under her breath, and when I glance at her, she's got the same, feverish look in her eyes as the waitress.

I kick her under the table and she jumps, a sheepish expression crossing her face.

"Oh my – wow! Wait until I tell Amy! This is crazy. Could I… could I please have your autograph?" The waitress rips a page from her notepad and shoves it in his face.

He looks like he's about to bolt.

"Um, I need to – to leave," he says, in a low, velvety voice laced with uncertainty. He places a few dollar notes on the table, but the waitress grabs his arm.

"Wait! You haven't signed this!" she exclaims as she waves the piece of paper in front of his face.

I don't know what comes over me. I mean, if you think I'm the kind of girl who likes to pretend she's a bitch but secretly gives money to charity, I'm not. But something about his shy, scared expression awakens some sort of knight-in-shining-armor complex in me, and before I stop to consider what I'm doing, I blurt out, "I thought it was going to be a tasteful, swimsuit-style shoot so I was rolling around on the sand, doing my thing. Laurent watched for a while and then he asked me to take off my bikini, and usually, I'm like, _No, Rosalie, nude shoots are a really bad idea'_, but I was just so comfortable that I couldn't resist taking everything off for the opportunity to appear on the cover of Playboy." I stare at Bella earnestly, silently begging her to just roll with it, but I'm obviously asking too much because she looks at me incredulously for five seconds, before dissolving into laughter.

Probably because I have a talent for doing voices, and my impression of Lauren Mallory's is almost indistinguishable from the original.

"Oh MY GOD! That's _Rosalie Hale! _OH MY GOD!" There's a flurry of activity as the manager of the café practically launches herself at our table, alternating between apologizing profusely and reprimanding the waitress, while Alec Mercier makes his hasty escape.

I watch him leave, an odd, sad feeling invading my chest.

"Can I get your autograph?" The waitress practically screams in my ear.

I stand and tower over her. "No, you can_not_," I say coldly, my voice dripping with icy distaste.

The waitress flinches and takes a hasty step backwards, almost tripping over the next table as she does so.

I throw a fifty down on the table and grab Bella, who can barely stand, she's laughing so hard.

"Maggie, you're fired!" the manager yells as I reach the door. I can't say I'm surprised.

I push open the door and step outside, lifting my hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun. I glance around and I'm almost relieved to see him standing next to a silver Volvo, his black-rimmed glasses askew, a hesitant expression on his face.

I don't understand him. I've lived my entire life with people staring at me wherever I go, commenting on my appearance and exclaiming over items of clothing I wore. I love it. I thrive on the attention, blossom in the spotlight. I've never run away from it like he has and I don't understand why he _would_ run from it.

But I don't dwell on it, on him. Whoever he is, he's a stranger to me. My good deed done for the day, I wink at him and start the short trek to my car, a highly amused Bella stumbling along behind me.

* * *

><p>"Move out of the way, fucker."<p>

"Not on your life… hey!" Edward throws the Wii controller down on the coffee table. "You're such a _bitch_!"

Baby Mario slides across the finish line and I smirk shamelessly at my opponent. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did Edward Masen just get schooled by a _girl_ at Mario Kart?"

Edward glares at me. "I want a re-match."

"As appealing as beating your ass _again_, that would be a no." I stick my tongue out at him and unfurl my legs from beneath me. Edward, ever the quintessential gentleman, has managed to take up as much room as possible on the sofa. I held out for an hour, but after several bruising jabs to the ribs, I had slid reluctantly off the couch and curled up on the rug.

"That was a fluke," Edward says confidently, "and you know it. But if you think you'll lose…"

I growl with annoyance and select a new race.

He rolls his eyes when I select Baby Peach this time, and then spend close to two minutes trying to decide between the Mach Bike and the Concerto, before he huffs and grabs the controller out of my hand before I can stop him. He selects the Mach Bike and drops the controller back in my lap, his brow quirked as if to say, _"Whatcha gonna do about it?"_

He really fucking gets on my nerves sometimes.

The race starts and Edward shoots smoothly into first place.

I drive after him and about halfway through the first lap, I ask casually, "Do you know who Alec Mercier is?"

Edward groans and shifts on the sofa. "Your cheating knows no bounds, Muzz."

"What do you mean, cheating?" I frown, confused and affronted. "I won fair and square, loser!"

"Mercier?" Edward mutters to himself. "_Really_?"

I hit pause and swivel around to stare at him expectantly.

He rolls his eyes and stands up. It's difficult to suppress the urge to hit play on the controller as he walks into Bella's room, but my pride refuses to allow me to win by dishonest means. He returns a few seconds later, carrying a tattered, well-worn book in his hand. He drops it in my lap and says, "Can we race, now?"

"Hang on." I flip the book over, face-up. His name is printed on the cover in clear, bold font, beneath the image of a beautiful, Native American woman. _The Withering_ is written above her head. "He's an author," I realize. I glance up at Edward. "Wait, _Alec Mercier_?" The more I say his name aloud, the more familiar it seems.

Edward grimaces and that's when it dawns on me.

"Oh, this is priceless," I grin. "Alec Mercier is on Bella's list!"

I jump to my feet, performing a weird sort of happy dance around the coffee table as I laugh gleefully at Edward. He looks like someone's just told him his entire family is being tortured in a dungeon and there's nothing he can do about it.

"Oh, this is _perfect_," I exclaim. "Bella has finally met the love of her life and you, my friend, will never darken my doorway again."

"Rosalie," Edward says, his voice infused with an odd, deadly kind of calm. He stands and his fingers encircle my wrist, halting my happy dance with more strength than you'd expect from someone so lanky. Then again, he _is_ a bounty hunter and apprehending fugitives can be quite a physically taxing job.

"_Edward_," I say, mimicking his low, scary tone. The urge to laugh is so strong I almost snort in his face.

The sound of keys echoes in the hallway outside the apartment and our head's whip around in the direction of the door, just as Bella pushes it open. Edward's fingers tighten on my wrist and I smile cheerfully at Bella, ignoring him.

"Should I come back later? You guys look like you're pretty busy," she jokes. She shoves a loose curl behind her ear and drops her briefcase inside the door, toeing off her shoes.

"I was just telling Edward that no, I won't be his rebound sex now that you're eloping with Alec Mercier," I grin.

A sort of dazed look crosses Bella's face before she snorts. "Yeah, like he'd ever elope with _me_."

I dissolve into laughter at the expression on Edward's face; he looks like he's torn between telling her that of _course_ she's good enough for Alec Mercier, and acting like a caveman (read: hauling her over his shoulder and locking her in her room until time – and a copious amount of sex (MY EYES!) – convinces her to stay with him).

"This is all your fault," I tell him unsympathetically. "You're the one who let her _have_ a list."

At the allusion to Bella's Celebrities-I-Can-Sleep-With-Even-Though-I'm-In-A-Committed-Relationship list, she realizes why Edward has my wrist in a death grip and she rolls her eyes.

"Please, babe," she says tiredly, "any inclination I'd have had to elope with him was fucked out of me earlier in the janitor's closet."

Edward immediately relaxes and releases my wrist, his green eyes darkening as he steps around the sofa.

I'm so sickened by both their gross incomprehension of the boundaries of PDA and the fact that Edward won't be leaving any time soon, that I contemplate hitting the play button on my Wii controller but my victory will be hollow, because he won't be around to gloat to. Praying they won't defile my beautiful sofa, I wander into my room and slam the door shut.

Being unemployed is really starting to grate on my nerves. I've rearranged my room, bought a new, dark red comforter to match the red drapes, and made use of Edward's PS3 so often that I've wiped most of his scores off the board in _Crash Bandicoot_.

I'm starting to go crazy.

Unable to face another night staring at the ceiling of my bedroom while Edward and Bella have annoyingly loud sex, I grab my cell and dial Jasper's number.

It rings twice before he picks up with, "Oh, good, you rang."

"Where are you hitting tonight?" I ask. "I wanna come with."

I shove open my closet door and rest my cell on my shoulder as I rifle through my clothes, looking for something appropriate to wear.

"I'm minding J|H tonight, actually," he says. "One of the bartender's quit and I haven't had a chance to hire anyone new, so I'm filling in."

"Cool. I'll drop by for a few hours," I tell him. I tug a pair of black leggings off a hanger and fling them on my bed. "Have you been talking to Mother recently?"

"Still haven't told her about quitting, have you?" He sounds amused.

"I haven't, nor do I intend to."

I select a long, shimmery cream top and it joins my leggings on the bed.

"She's going to find out eventually."

"If I tell Mother now, I'll have to spend at _least_ two hours listening to her cry about how all she ever wanted was two good, loving children and how she doesn't deserve the shit we put her through."

"So you'd rather she find out via the tabloids?"

"Exactly. Then she has time to process the information, leave a million voice messages that I'll never listen to, and get over it."

"It's your funeral," Jasper drawls.

"Thank you for your overwhelming support." My voice is laden with sarcasm. "Really, thank you."

"You're welcome."

I hear the sound of his office door opening and a female voice in the background.

"I'll see you later, Muzz." He's already hung up before I can voice a word of protest. I stare at my cell in disbelief. Sometimes, it's like he was raised by wolves (which isn't that far off, really).

I shower, dress and put on my make-up. I add a quick layer of hairspray to give my hair volume and grab my purse from my vanity table on my way to the kitchen.

The lights are off and Bella's door is shut. She's left me a note on the fridge, though, and I roll my eyes as I read it. She knows me too well.

_Have fun tonight! :) – B_

I collect my keys from the key bowl and make my way downstairs in the elevator. The doorman, Austin, calls me a cab and wishes me goodnight as I leave.

Jasper's club, J|H, is located in downtown Seattle. The building had originally been a ballet studio, but when a fire destroyed the entire interior of the building, the owners put it up for sale and moved away. Jasper bought it less than two weeks later, worked his usual magic on the place, and now it's one of the most popular clubs in Seattle. I have to hand it to my brother – when it comes to what people want, he knows how to give it.

There's a long line outside when I pull up in the cab. I stroll up to the bouncer on the door – Paul – and he recognizes me immediately, allowing me to pass without a word.

Strobe lights flicker sporadically throughout the room, illuminating the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor and the crowd at the bar. It's early enough but the place is already packed, a testament to Jasper's ability to attract people _en masse_.

I make my way over to the bar. Jasper's working, like he said he would be, but he's still managing to flirt with a small, black-haired girl as he takes drink requests. He sees me coming and pushes a shot of Tequila in my direction, with a quick wink.

My brother, Ladies and Gentlemen, corrupting poor, innocent souls since nineteen-eighty-four.

I watch him for a little bit. I've never known him to get involved with what he would call manual labor so I'm kind of amazed at the speed and accuracy by which he doles out drinks. It gets busier after a few minutes and he's forced to abandon his flirtation with the girl, but not before he introduces her to me. He clearly wants to hang on to this one for the night.

"Alice Brandon, huh?" I say over the music. "You sound _really_ familiar."

She smiles and nods as she takes a sip of her drink. "You've modeled my clothes," she laughs.

I remember, then. I'd done a photo shoot for her summer lingerie line last year, _Alice n'Underland_. I had been seriously impressed with her talent and gone out the next day to pre-order a ton of her clothes from her web site.

"Let's dance," I say, grabbing her hand. She follows me eagerly and I know I've found a kindred spirit when she throws herself into the music as heartily as I do. We mouth the lyrics at each other, laughing and gyrating to the beat, and even though I'm aware of people staring at us, I feel myself relax for the first time in ages.

I drink more and dance more. My head starts to feel warm and fuzzy, and I feel like I want to go home with somebody tonight. God, I can't even remember the last time I got laid.

No, that was a lie. The last time I got some, I was on Emmett's yacht, celebrating his birthday with the rest of his friends.

"Two months," I groan.

"What?" Alice mouths over the music.

I shake my head and grin.

Every so often, hands will grope my ass, or slide over my hips, but I'm so used to the attention that I just continue to dance. Alice shakes her head and rolls her eyes, and I laugh and laugh and laugh.

Alice and I wander back to the bar toward the end of the night. Jasper glares at any man who dares hit on me and I start to get seriously pissed off with him.

"You're such a cock-blocking douche," I yell over the music.

He flips me the finger and winks.

Alice giggles, like it's the sexiest thing she's ever seen, but it just pisses me off even more. Eventually, I give up, and have Paul call me a cab while Jasper flirts more with Alice. I like her, so I silently cross my fingers that he won't run right through this one, like he usually does with girls.

I still spend the taxi ride home plotting my revenge, though.

* * *

><p>I was six when I first worked up the courage to slip the scissors from Mother's dressing table drawer and go to town on my hair. I hacked and hacked until my long, sleek hair resembled something closer to Jasper's (and yet not even close). When she returned from the country club, Mother dissolved into forty-five minutes of hyperventilation, screaming at God for cursing her with "thankless brats", and I wasn't permitted to leave the house for over four months, until my hair grew back.<p>

You try telling that woman the career that she practically raised you for now resides in the toilet.

The phone calls start at four a.m. on Tuesday morning, because in addition to being completely and utterly self-absorbed, my mother has absolutely no concept of appropriate calling hours. I muster up enough energy to switch off the machine and get properly acquainted with the new bitch in my life (the toilet), and fall asleep on the cold bathroom floor.

My mother is nothing if not relentless. The phone calls continue well into Tuesday night until Bella finally screams at me (which isn't very nice of her, really, in my hungover state) to do something about it, so I text her and tell her I'll meet her for lunch tomorrow.

I can tell she's pissed off that I'm ignoring her, but the phone calls stop and it's a small price to pay for the relief of having a functional phone once more.

I'm still not even close to prepared when she waltzes into the café on Wednesday morning, looking like a borderline anorexic Jennifer Coolidge. Mother used to look like me, back when Daddy was still up to his eyes in the student loans that got him through medical school. Like me, she'd been randomly approached by a modeling scout, but then Daddy went and knocked her up, and that was that. She turned to a life of reminiscing and Botox, and now resembles a blow up doll more than she resembles me.

She sniffs daintily as she lowers herself onto the seat opposite me and says, "Well isn't this place… quaint."

"_You_ chose it," I mutter sullenly.

She narrows her eyes, attempting what I presume is supposed to be a scathing expression, except, you know, her face isn't very _expressive_. Not that that makes her any less terrifying. She's barely even opened her mouth yet and I'm dying for a Xanax.

"Now, Rosalie. Why don't you tell me what all this is about, hmm?"

I swallow loudly. "Well, see –"

"Because I, personally, cannot understand why almost every magazine and internet gossip column seems to think that you have quit your job," she continues, as if I never opened my mouth. "Tell me, where on _earth_ did they get such a silly, ridiculous idea, hmm?"

"It's not," I mumble.

"Pardon me?"

"It's _not_," I say, louder.

"Not what?"

"A silly idea." Avoiding her eyes, I jerk my head in the direction of the kitchen, praying like hell that there's a waiter around. "I quit."

Mother laughs loudly. She manages to sound so eerily similar to Glenn Close that I swear people at neighboring tables are getting goose bumps. "You hardly expect me to believe something so _ludicrous_, do you, darling?" She leans closer, her voice dropping to a low whisper as she asks seriously, "Am I being Punk'd?"

Before I can comment on her ridiculousness, a waiter arrives at our table.

"Are you ladies ready to order?" he asks my cleavage.

If Bella was here, she'd be snorting into her menu.

"Do you work for Ashton Catcher?" Mother asks him.

His gaze flies up from my V-neck sweater so fast I wonder if he gets a head rush. "Pardon me, ma'am?"

"It's Ashton _Kutcher_," I correct, "and you're not being Punk'd, Mother."

"Then why do you persist with these – these filthy _lies_?" she exclaims. "Because I refuse to believe that you have just up and quit your job after everything I sacrificed for you like an ungrateful little bitch."

"I'll just come back in a few minutes," the waiter says hesitantly.

Anger slices through me. I'm sick of her thinking she can run my life for me. I'm twenty-eight years old, for crying out loud! "Refuse all you like, Mother, but my decision is final," I say sharply.

"You can't just -!" She stops midsentence and purses her lips, working to gain control of her temper and modulate her voice. "I didn't raise you like this to have you throw away your future on a whim, Rosalie."

"I'm twenty eight years old, Mother," I point out. "In a few years, nobody's going to want to book me. I'm already losing out to younger models."

Mother reaches across the table and clasps my hand sympathetically. "We've discussed this, darling. Your father can arrange for a consultation. You can keep working for a decade, at least. Until you get married."

Frustration surges through me and I jerk my hand out from under hers. "I'm not getting plastic surgery, Mother! And I'm certainly not going to marry some poor bastard for his money when I'm perfectly capable of making my own."

"Perfectly capable?" Mother laughs cruelly. "You have no skills, no experience and no degree. You're qualified for absolutely nothing. You've never had a long-term boyfriend and your marriage prospects are nonexistent. The only thing you're 'perfectly capable' of, _darling_, is flushing your life down the toilet."

I stare at her in shock.

It's not like I don't already know fucked I am. I mean, I've even had one manager laugh in my face when I asked him for a job. But her complete lack of faith in me hurt.

The waiter chooses that moment to return, his eyes darting nervously between Mother and I as he tried to determine whether we were ready or not. "Are you ready now, ladies?"

Mother opens her mouth to speak but I beat her to it.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a toilet to flush." I stand up, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair.

"Rosalie, for goodness sake, sit down," Mother scolds.

"I'd rather not." I push my arms through the sleeves. "Here-" I drop a twenty dollar bill into the waiter's shirt pocket. "Do _not_ serve her alcohol."

He nods numbly and I start walking toward the exit. There's a lump forming in my throat and I realize, to my utter humiliation, that if I don't develop some sort of superhuman control over my emotions in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to start crying.

In _public_.

My head bowed to hide the onslaught of tears about to rip their way out of my eyeballs (I don't like crying, okay!), I push open the door to the café and walk straight into someone in a large pair of black Converse.

"Oh god, I'm sorry –" a familiar, velvety voice intones and my head jerks up, my tears momentarily forgotten as I recognize the person I've just rudely barged into.

_Alec._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Anyone curious about Rosalie's nickname? :)<strong>  
><em>


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